‘We have money,’ he reminded her. ‘We have diamonds and we have new identity papers for our father. We are well prepared, Lydia.’

‘I know.’

‘We always knew it was going to be dangerous to attempt to bribe the guards at the camp. Finding the right one, a guard so greedy he will sell his soul and risk anything – even execution – to have-’

‘I know.’ A pause. ‘I know.’ The wind snatched at her words.

‘It will take us time,’ he said quietly. ‘We can’t – you mustn’t – rush into any risks that-’

‘I know.’

He let a silence drift between them but still held her arm laced through his. She could feel the strength in his hand where it was fastened on her wrist and the strength of the mind that controlled it.

‘Alexei.’

‘What is it?’

‘Do you think Jens was one of those prisoners?’

She felt a muscle tighten in his hand, heard his intake of breath. ‘Pulling that timber wagon, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s unlikely.’ His voice was as calm as if discussing the possibility of rain.

‘I thought one man seemed to have red hair.’

‘No, Lydia, we were much too far away. You couldn’t possibly see that. It’s wishful thinking. Anyway it may not be red any more.’

They looked at each other, then walked in silence, the street growing narrower, the neighbourhood rougher. The well-built brick homes gave way to shapeless wooden houses which were looking tired and shabby. A honey-coloured mongrel in a doorway whined at them as they passed.

Wishful thinking.

I wish. I think. Oh yes, Papa, Alexei is right. I wish for you and I think of you… and I am frightened for you. My blood runs cold when I picture you, a green-eyed Viking, condemned to exist underground in one of the mines.

‘The man who built this town was a visionary,’ Alexei interrupted her thoughts. He had turned away, so she could only see his profile with its high forehead and straight, uncompromising nose, but his mouth was curved into a line of approval.

‘What do you mean?’ She had no interest in the town.

‘His name was Leonid Ventov.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I did my research. When preparing for battle, you reconnoitre the land.’

Lydia loved him for that, the way he kept them safe. She squeezed his arm. ‘Tell me about this Leonid Ventov of yours.’

‘He was an industrialist from Odessa at the end of the last century. He grew fat and rich on what he discovered lay under this cold black soil, huge deposits of coal and iron ore, but he was a fiercely religious man. So instead of just stripping the land bare and leaving it raped and useless, he built this town of Felanka as a beautifully designed thank you to his god. He tried to persuade others in the growing breed of wealthy industrialists to do the same throughout Russia but…’ His voice trailed away.

Lydia felt his attention focus abruptly elsewhere. She glanced ahead as they emerged from the shadow of a row of houses and saw what it was that had drawn his interest. Ahead of them at the edge of town stretched a flat, dull landscape, deserted except for one wide rutted road that ran straight to the iron foundry about a kilometre away. The brick building was hunched and forbidding, as if waiting for night to fall when it would stalk closer to the town under cover of darkness. Its stacks stretched upwards, like fingers raking the crimson sky, and belched a thick black smoke which today was swept away from the town by the east wind. But still the air tasted sour and stung the nostrils.

Lydia examined it with interest. ‘So this is where we’ll bring him?’

‘Da. As soon as we’ve got Jens out of the camp, we’ll need to hide him. What better place than in a foundry where blackened faces and constantly changing shifts are the norm? Among that vast throng of metal workers, he would pass unnoticed. But first…’

‘We have to find a worker willing to take him in there.’

‘Exactly. That’s what your Cossack and I will start work on tonight.’

‘Alexei?’

Their footsteps slowed, finally halting on the edge of the frozen landscape that ranged for miles in every direction. Only the foundry itself was built in a sunken hollow, as though its creator had endeavoured to keep it as much out of sight as possible, its ugliness an affront to the splendour of his god. Now, with religion nothing more than a dirty word, just something the Politburo wiped their Communist boots on, the factories and foundries of Russia had become the new churches.

‘Alexei?’ Lydia said again, her finger tapping his arm insistently.

He nodded to indicate he was listening, but his eyes still scrutinised the approach road to the foundry. Somewhere unseen, the sound of a truck starting up drifted to their ears.

‘I’ve thought of an idea,’ she said.

She felt his arm stiffen. He looked at her quickly. ‘What idea?’

‘I need to help. At the moment it’s just you and Popkov sniffing out a guard and a foundry worker who will take a bribe, while I sit twiddling my thumbs, just waiting for you to-’

‘For God’s sake, Lydia, what do you expect? If you start putting your face about and asking questions, you’ll throw us all in danger.’ He tightened his grip on her hand. ‘Don’t!’ he said. His green eyes probed hers intently. ‘Whatever it is, don’t! Do you hear me? Don’t!’

There was a long silence between them, broken only by the truck engine approaching. Lydia was the first who looked away, not because she was nervous of him but because she didn’t want him to see how angry she was. She tried to remove her hand from his arm but he refused to release it. The sky was losing its colour and the first wings of darkness were gliding in from the west.

‘Let’s go back,’ Lydia said.

They turned and retraced their steps along the narrow streets in silence.


The truck overtook them. It was empty and bouncing along at speed, kicking up dust and trailing a foul odour in its wake, but just ahead a handcart had tumbled on to its side in the middle of the road, spewing out cabbages that rolled into the gutter like loose heads. The truck sounded its horn then juddered to a halt. As Lydia and Alexei approached, the blond young driver of the truck wound down his window, leaned out and treated Lydia to an inviting smile that displayed perfect teeth under the sparse beginnings of a moustache. He was wearing a navy woollen cap pulled down at an angle over one eye, giving him the air of an adventurer.

‘Hello, beautiful,’ he called. ‘Ti takaya krasivaya.’

Lydia felt Alexei bristle but nevertheless she looked up into the cab of the truck and gave the driver an answering smile. ‘Dobriy vecher,’ she responded. ‘Good evening.’

‘Want a lift?’

She let the question hang in the air and felt both men alert to her answer. Alexei still held her hand on his arm but made no attempt to speak, looking deliberately straight ahead at the cart being manhandled out of the way.

‘Nyet. But thanks anyway.’ She gave the driver a slow sideways glance and heard him laugh delightedly.

He leaned down in his cab and brought up something small in his hand, which he tossed out the window to her. It arced between them, spiralling and twisting, until Lydia snatched it out of the air with her free hand. It was just a metal disc, no bigger than a coin but polished to perfection, with the name Kolya engraved on it. The driver waved to her and drove on over the cabbages, leaving them with a belch of exhaust fumes and a long blast on his horn.

‘I bet he keeps one of those in his truck for every girl he passes,’ Alexei muttered, and it amused Lydia to see he was irritated by the little gift. She twirled the flat disc between her fingers and the last rays of sunlight turned it to fire.

‘It’s an omen,’ she laughed and swept off her ugly hat, letting her hair leap free.

She had learned about omens from Chang An Lo; how the gods sent them as a sign. Westerners had lost the skill of recognising them, but Chang had taught her how to feel for them with her fox spirit.

‘Lydia, there’s no such thing as-’

‘Of course there is.’ She spun the gleaming disc. ‘See the fire in it. It matches me. Don’t you see? It means I’m meant to be here. The omen burns so bright, it shows we’re destined for success. ’

Alexei had stopped in the middle of the street and was staring at her, disbelief written all over his face. But she didn’t miss the laughter in his eyes.

‘Now,’ she said, ‘shall I tell you my idea?’


‘The answer is still no.’

Lydia stood alone in her bedroom in the hostel, her limbs too stiff and unyielding to let her curl up on the bed and seek refuge in sleep. It was as if they took orders now from Alexei instead of from herself. She heard his words still rattling round inside her skull with a persistence that drove her to fret at the hat in her hands, pulling threads out of it when really what she wanted to do was pull threads out of Alexei.

The answer is still no.

That’s what he’d said, over and over again. ‘I will not allow you to go wandering off on your own. The answer is no.’

Her plan was straightforward, simple really. While he and Popkov spent the next few days or weeks – however long it took – combing through the detritus of the back streets, prodding and poking at it to find the weak points, she would return to the railway station and endeavour to buy a ticket to travel back the way they’d come, in the direction of Selyansk.

‘Why?’ he’d asked, eyes narrowed. ‘What would be the point of that?’

‘To travel past the prison camp’s Work Zone again.’

Alexei had exhaled sharply through his teeth, a low whistling sound she noticed he made only when caught off guard by a sudden strong emotion. It should have warned her.

‘You see,’ she rushed on, ‘I might be able to find a way to pass a message into the camp. Now we know that these trains carry prisoners in transit as well, I might find a way of contacting one and…’ She slowed the words to make him listen, she knew her brother hated disorder. ‘He might seek out Papa… Jens Friis,… and tell him he might…’